


Libera Me

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-12
Updated: 2003-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 11:11:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/356019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love will set you free if you let it.  [Written specially for Nerodi's Historical Fiction Challenge!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Libera Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written specially for Nerodi's Historical Fiction Challenge! 

## Libera Me

by Lexalot

<http://www.livejournal.com/users/lexalot>

* * *

Libera Me  
By: Lexalot 

Summary: Love will set you free if you let it. 

Rating: NC-17 

Disclaimer: I lay claim to what is represented herein no more than I was living during this time period :) 

Pairing: Clark/Lex 

Inspiration and Reference: I credit every Anne Rice book I ever read and Poppy Z. Brite herself combined with her writing, as I draw directly and indirectly from those sources; Other--The "Truman Show" and "Moulin Rouge 2" soundtracks as well as the "Interview with the Vampire" film and score (which contains the track from which this story gets its title). 

* * *

The Crescent City was bustling with citizens from all walks of life. As I made my casual strides through the streets, I regarded every pedestrian of ill repute just as pleasantly as those of more contemptible aristocratic society, even though my birthright fell into the latter of the vastly differing classes. My quiet air was draped about me in the same nonchalant style as my fancy silk garments in their vivid hues of purple and red that accentuated the black I indulged so excessively in my wardrobe. Parading down Iberville Street in the colors of royalty and grief, mourning only for myself, I soaked up the environment. This was the Storyville section of the French Quarter, and it was alive with activity. Pimps, prostitutes, and the stars of burlesque shows that scandalized each cabaret stood outside the entrances to their entertainment establishments. Girls hung out the shuttered windows on the ground levels while couples lingered indecently on the balconies on the second and third floors of every building. 

There was a romance about the Quarter, even here where the lewd forms of leisurely amusement littered the scenery and swamped the senses. I was quite content here, feeling all too comfortable and not the faintest out of my element. However, I was not one for the need or want of such services. No, I merely took well to the controversial surroundings, taking even more kindly to the refreshing release I found from my station in shedding it for all its dull and dismal existence was worth. I came for the wilds of visual experiience, and I lingered for theanonymity. 

This night I was tiring, and preparing to depart for my townhouse on Bourbon Street, but then I spied him. He was a treasure to behold, a visage as lovely as that of any woman but so extraordinarily more exquisite, and he was clad in drab powder blue with his shoulder-length locks tied in a ponytail of loose curls and dark waves. My breath caught in my chest as I admired his perfect beauty, unsurpassed by any stunning vision I had encountered before. 

My initial impression was that he was a patron of the brothel from which he had emerged, as an innocence and embarrassment radiated from his demeanor, his low and darting eyes confessing his shy and awkward state; but then, one of the men I recognized as a proprietor of that particular business came and began speaking to him as he listened timidly, his nervousness rising at the man's presence, and his subordination soon became intriguingly apparent. That was when I realized by his behavior and seeming association to this ruffian that he was a whore, one of the rare males of the house, and he was being positioned outside on display for the passing public in order to arouse guaranteed interest and revenue. Yes, profits from this desirable boy were likely to soar and make this scoundrel wealthy if he were wise about managing this alluring property. 

As I glanced around, I noticed several pairs of eyes distractedly preoccupied with him already, and something deep inside me compelled me to take action, lest he be bought for the evening and I cheated of such a fine purchase. I approached swiftly, a grand vanity conjured in pretense, so that I would command the attention and respect of all those who might stand in my way or challenge me, but some strange notion was born in me that I also wished to possess this captivating youth of my presence. 

I began my greeting before I reached them. "Good evening." 

The boy's eyes set on me curiously, and his inquisitive scrutiny landed ultimately on my straight fall of flame red hair that was tied back in a simple style with a satin black ribbon. His fascination followed my mane from head to the center of my back where the silky strands ended. No sooner did I smile noticing his notice of me than his cheeks flushed the most luscious shade of wine and he cast his eyes away from me entirely. 

The pimp smiled gratuitously at me, his greed already dictating his courtesy. "Good evening, monsieur. How are you tonight?" 

My introduction was met with the pimp's enthusiasm, but as my eyes settled upon the boy and fixed on him, he tensed terribly. "I'm well enough." 

When I failed to elaborate in order to focus my efforts on the interest I flirtatiously flaunted with my gaze and grin, the pimp grew excitedly impatient, eager to begin racking up an income derived solely from this splendid creature. "Can I help you with something?" 

The increase in the width of my smile removed any doubt of my intentions. "Yes, you can. Who is this gorgeous lad?" 

"Ahh!" he pronounced proudly. "His name is Clark." 

I nodded politely, but the boy made no motion or gesture in response. 

The pimp segued into his pitch, as if the sale were as tentative. "He's new. This is his first night." The man leaned in to whisper obscenely. "He hasn't been sampled yet, and he's never been touched. So I'm afraid he is rather expensive." 

I chortled, scoffing at the remark and the distinct scent of avarice, staged prowess, and drink that clung to this man. My subtle outburst alarmed the boy something fierce, his features exaggerated by the fear and denial upon them. "Price is of no consequence to me." 

"Excellent." I knew that would please the voracious man, and conversely that his next words would disturb his delicious piece of merchandise. "He is all yours, then, monsieur. You can take him inside, or if you like..." 

"Inside is fine." I could not contain the thrill that burned in my blood, and my tone echoed that pleasure to have obtained this young man's virtue and physical companionship through such material means. "Shall we?" The boy remained rigid and immobile, his breath trapped in his throat, and mine hitched at the sight of him so flustered. "Do you not care to share my company?" At that moment, he was overwhelmed, as a result of my direct address and implication. "Do you not want me?" The visible muscular sinews of his chest rose and fell with a heavy breath that was frightened and duly sensuous. It made me marvel at his virginal status. Nonetheless, his lack of reply was a bit discouraging. "Is he a mute?" I asked with a vague perplexity written upon my brow. 

"My apologies, monsieur. He's just not very vocal." He nudged the boy insistently. "Talk to the gentleman, Clark." The boy only bounced his wide-eyed gaze from his pimp to me, then back to his pimp, and no words came in his silent panic. "Say something!" 

"No!" I interjected promptly. This was not how I would have this done. "Don't force him to speak to me." 

When I said this on his behalf, bidding his pimp to leave him be, throwing my riches around like the law, he eased ever so slightly. 

"Come, my dear boy." I extended my hand, and he accepted it reluctantly. 

After guiding him to the back of the house, maneuvering us through crowds amassed inside and fraternizing without inhibition, I finally happened upon a vacant room with an empty bed and locked us in it. There were green, purple, and golden yellow sheets hanging from the canopy of the rosewood bed, the appropriate decoration of Mardi Gras colors since the celebration was to come in just a month's time. The air was cool, but a dampness weighted the fragrance of lavender and sex in place. The sweet smell reminded me that there ought to be oil somewhere, and having barely scanned the furnishings, I located the bottles set upon the lone dresser with its rectangular mirror that was so large it was two separate pieces held together almost seamlessly by the frame. 

Once I had collected the bottle of oil I required, I retreated onto the space of the bed, behind the veil of covers that draped creating the illusion of deeper intimacy and privacy in a room with a closed and secured entrance. 

"Clark." I beckoned him, watching as he stood across the room decidedly by himself. There was no changing the situation though; he was mine, and I would have him. Aware that this was the reality of the matter, he slowly progressed towards the mattress, and climbed atop it, inching to my side as gradually as his distance could stand to give. My hand reached out for his face, and he subtly began to recoil, but then held his position. "You needn't be so scared. I'm not a dangerous man." He seemed to mentally resign himself to conceding his free will, and his whole body yielded begrudgingly. "I would never hurt you." My honesty soothed him somewhat, and rightfully so, because I only meant to satisfy my lust and passion, and he was the precious object I coveted, therefore I appreciated his favor too much to abuse him. 

I stroked the sharp contour of his cheek with the back of my hand, and memorized the image of him lying there, waiting for me to take him, looking so bashfully chaste and yet his purity was, indeed, sold for immediate disposal, and I was the one who would accomplish this privileged task. I basked in the anticipation, but my patience started to waver, even as strongly as I tried to delay. My fingers worked at the laces upon his plain clothes that barred me from his golden, tanned flesh. The uncovering of skin became my new priority, as I stripped his clothes all away fragment by fragment, untying and unfastening, the drawn out process excruciatingly tantalizing as his magnificence was revealed to me in its full glory. 

When we were both left with only skin, my stare could not stray from him as he shut his eyes for an instant while inhaling a calming breath. My hand slid down his ribs, over his hip, and then rounded his thigh and began to gently coax his legs apart. As my fingertips grazed the inner curve of his thigh, he inhaled more sharply, and I let my palm trace the path down to his sex. I teased the sensitive terrain of his scrotum with my lightest touch, and I was tremendously pleased when he shuddered at the fleeting contact. The wary edge of his psyche kept his organ partially limp, and I certainly preferred it to be fully erect. 

I sunk back from the upper half of the bed, and eased my mouth down his torso in its sinewy definition that appealed to my exploratory kisses as they trailed lower still. Finally, I reached his member, and wrapped my lips around the head, and as it swelled and he bucked up into me, I swallowed his stiffened cock whole. His moans were frenzied in his surprise, and the attention I was paying him worked its charm upon his body, stimulating him completely, heightening every sensation for him and for me as well. My throat enveloped his entire length, and I was not nurturing his libido long before his seed spilled and was consumed. He was spent, and I still had desire to spare, but I had felt it a significant gesture, both of trust and generosity, to have seen to his fulfillment before selfishly pursuiing my own, and the impact ofthat logic as well as the benevolent motivation behind it was not anything I cared to ponder. 

Before venturing my own gratification, I grabbed the oil from where I had placed it upon the bedclothes, uncapped it, and spread it onto my fingers. He was still too far gone recovering to realize what I was doing until my first finger was poised at the crevice and slipped into the tight heat of his body. Straight away, I sought and found the pleasure spot that caught him utterly off guard. More milky fluid gushed from his sex, which had been softening in the aftermath of my attack of ministration upon it. He seemed to have expected his well to be emptied, but the surge and current of desire still had him in its throes. 

When I added the next finger, and the other after that, his ecstasy peaked, and the slight grimace that marred his features told me he was beginning to feel the pressure and pain of the more intense penetration. I took my cue from his waning response, and settled on top of him, steadying myself between his legs. This was going to mean added difficulty in the way of alignment and balance, but I refused to demand that he turn over to lie on his stomach. I wanted to look at him while I was inside him, and I wanted him to see me. It was more personal, not to mention more congenial, and it made the act more benign. 

The moment was upon me and had arrived so suddenly it seemed. I brushed my thumb over his wet, full and pink lips, and then over his shut eyelids. At my touch, they fluttered open, and our eyes met in a sweet exchange of inexpressible bliss. My hips thrust forward with controlled momentum, and gracefully impaled him upon my cock. I took careful measure of my movements at first; gauging his every reaction, not just so as not to cause him physical duress, but to carve this experience into the folds of my brain so it would never escape my recollection. His arms wrapped around me, clutching at my back, probably in the urge to hold and be held that came with this kind of implied tenderness. When I deemed it safe, my motion grew faster and rougher, throbbing for release in the act of penetration, and then it came. It lasted long enough, as it had been a while since I had lain with another. 

He was still gripping me firmly when my climax and the aftershocks of it ceased. I noticed with some small amount of dread that he was trembling, but as I pulled back to see his expression, I realized he was well. I allowed the embrace to last out of foolish sentimentality, unable or unwilling to count the months since I had been involved sexually or otherwise... could it even have been a matter of years? 

Disenchantment struck, and I was bent on parting. I disentangled myself from his twisted limbs and withdrew from the bed to dress. As I pulled on all the articles of clothing and groomed myself into a presentable manner, I observed his discomfort in its post-coital magnification. His face suffered under predictable confusion and distress. Disillusionment would come for him too, and I was witnessing the birth of its weeds. 

I did not mean to be cold, but I could not be hot, and the best I had to offer at this stale point was lukewarm. Part of me was actually disappointed to be leaving, but this was my set course, and I'd not digress. Still, I pitied the boy. Clark. I was convinced I would not be able to forget him. 

"I doubt you'll ever see me again, but if that should be the way of it... my name is Alexander." 

* * *

This had been truly unintentional. I had not purposely done this. It quite simply happened of obsession or of compulsion or both. 

I should not have told him my name. I should not have gotten his. And I really should not have bedded him. Thoughts of our arranged rendezvous had plagued me, left me bereft of his desirable company, and though I knew nothing in earnest of him, I found myself smitten with the idea of his companionship as I had sat in my large parlor alone, gulping down Bordeaux by the glass, then by the bottle. If it had not been for the loneliness that ensued, I would not have gone back to Storyville two weeks later, setting out to invite another accidental meeting with the very pretty young man. 

Then, I would not have subsequently spotted him standing outside the very same whorehouse with his same pimp at his side, and he would not have noticed me as I watched him from across the crowded street. But that was indeed the way of it. Oh, how he had suppressed a smile when he recognized me, and a smaller spread of his lips greeted me. I would have approached, but I saw his pimp engaged in negotiations with a customer. When the man had slapped his arm to get his attention, he had seemed a bit confused, realizing the stranger who stood with his pimp had bought him for the night, rather than the familiar face that considered him with a long stare. He had not fought or resisted, and even went effortlessly. It had appeared he was becoming well practiced in his new profession. 

Once the boy parted along side his patron, I had descended upon the pimp quickly to inquire as to the next nightfall, that I might come to call on Clark's services again, asking specifically for him by name, and this time electing to take him to my residence for the evening. His owner informed me that this was fine, knowing I would pay whatever price he deemed suitable for such an arrangement, and he also informed me that the boy's skills had improved quite nicely, but he still had not said a word. I reassured him that it mattered not to me, and I wondered to myself if, unknowingly, I preferred it that way, or thought it advantageous. 

If not for all this, I would not have been there sitting at the table with him this night. When I had arrived to collect him, he had a certain zeal about his character, rather glad that I had at last returned to acquire him again. We walked the short distance to my Bourbon Street address, and I led him inside. I commented randomly on items about the house, like the Victrola and stereoscope, as he gaped at them in such ripened awe, but he was composed and silent throughout the tour. There were no portraits of ancestors as in any other patrician home, as I only cared to display landscapes and other such inspirational scenes, and he had admired those as we passed to the cavernous dining room. 

We were seated at opposite ends of a stretched rosewood table that was decorated in ridiculous extravagance from the ornate silver utensils to the fanciful plates with gold trim. In the slight delay of dinner, I mused over the fact that I only ever kept two servants; one for the kitchen and one for the door or anything else that need the rare tending. When the meal came, he ate ravenously, as though he were malnourished, but it certainly hadn't seemed so by the looks of him, yet he acted like one who was starved. Perhaps he was being frequented so often that it scarcely left him opportunity to feed. The distaste of that notion soured my mood and smeared over my mind like bitter ashes. I did not care for the idea of him being mistreated, but in addition, I did not care to think of sharing him, and I'm not sure what incited my anger more, or why. 

Upon finishing, we retired to my bedchamber, and before I had even closed the door, his lips flew to my neck, and I swooned in the sudden burst of affection, absorbing it like I had no life of my own and needed his desire to feel alive, or to feel anything good in this world. My fingers curled up into his tresses, and pulled them loose from their constraint so that the waves landed softly upon his shoulders. As he kissed my jaw and the side of my face, I reached back to untie my own hair. No sooner did I go to remove my purple silk cravat than he abandoned me to back his body onto the bed, lying down readily, hunger in his eyes as they pleaded that I join him. I was astounded by his comfort and desire. I knew all that saw him must have wanted him, but how many of them had their want reciprocated like this. I flattered myself with the thought that only I infatuated him so, that this display of lust was one he saved for me. 

While I was with him this time, while I reveled in the carnal knowledge of him again, several things passed through my head. I noted how delicious it was to be back inside him, like the warmest homecoming with a fire stoked in my honor. I also noted, much to my pleasure and dismay, that my experience of him now reflected not only my previous experience, but also his own, having become more active. Lessons learned under the tutelage of others, several others I surmised, were being utilized in our exploit. His hands roamed my lean flesh and his lips tasted my pampered skin. He maintained an adept endurance, his stamina and discipline in the act having exceeded what I would imagine to be normal at his stage of training. He was hard and coming of his own accord. He was inconceivably popular, and now he was proving to be undeniably better, very good in fact. These things were as exhilarating as they were vexing. Did he reserve any of those efforts for me or did he spend his energy in a frivolous and indiscriminate manner? I distracted myself from such mysteries and turned my concentration on the passion of the moment, and soon thereafter, it was finished. 

I kissed his cheek, still avoiding the intimacy of lips and tongues coming together, and then I rolled off him to his rest at his side. He laid flat on his back for a minute, then glanced over at me as I turned on my side, my head propped up on my hand, and he turned on his side too, mirroring my gesture of proximity. He set his head down upon the pale lavender satin of the pillow, and closed his eyes contentedly, only to reopen them and stare at me as I stared at him. 

The urge swept over me to comb my fingers through his disheveled curls, and he purred at the contact. His gaze traveled the length of my fiery mane, and I recalled his fascination with my hair the first time he had ever laid eyes upon me. He had most likely never seen strands of such bright red before, and I adored his fancy of the vibrant orange color. I had not uttered a thing in quite a while, but I suddenly felt the inclination to talk in the euphoric afterglow, and this subject was as good a place to start as any, particularly considering I was the only speaker. 

"I'm of Scottish descent and noble heritage, so I have a few inescapable physical traits. The red hair is one. The pale complexion is another. The blue-gray eyes are yet another. It's all genetic." His brow knotted, as though I was speaking a foreign language, and I might very well have been, because as it was obvious he was being versed in the language of sexuality, it was possible English was not his native language, or even one he was being taught. I was American, and I took the universality of the culture for granted at times, nearly forgetting the mixed background of this city. "Hereditary." I used another term, hoping it would stir something in him to counter his confusion, but his ease and bare nod left me in doubt as to whether or not he truly understood. 

I was so dazed by his implied vulnerability suddenly that I began chattering mindlessly. "What is your heritage, I wonder. I certainly don't think you're Scottish with that dark chocolate hair and those jade green eyes. I doubt you're quadroon, or even octoroon. I wouldn't imagine you had even that much African blood in your veins as is not uncommon here." The lovely mix of exotic features that made him so unbelievably attractive confounded me. "It's difficult to say anything for sure, except that you're probably of mixed breed, as you must be able to trace your lineage to at least two different cultures, I'm guessing." His eyes dropped to the sheets, and I deduced that somehow I had made him uncomfortable. I realized he probably did not want to be reminded of his background, and I instantly dispensed with the topic, since I had no real fondness for discussing my own past. All anyone ever need hear was that my mother passed on in my youth, and my father had made his living as a businessman of sorts in New York. He too was gone, and that entire ordeal and tragedy seemed like a whole other lifetime ago. 

Silence swelled, drowned me in its wake, and judging by his expression, it had the same effect on him. 

Then, out of nowhere. "Creole." 

It had not been I who spoke, and that temporarily dislodged me from my wits. "What?" It was all I could manage. 

His eyes rose to meet mine, only to fall again. He hesitated, but then he clarified in a louder, more solid voice. "I'm Creole." 

My mind was racing to catch up with the fact that he was using actual words to talk to me in his startlingly deep timbre, and then my reason dissected the very ones he had spoken. I knew that meant he was of French or Spanish descent then, or quite possibly some blended ratio of the two, born most likely right here in New Orleans, as his parents might have been too, living under the influence of a both French and Spanish populace. Nevertheless, it was not the origins of his culture that mattered to me, but the decisive act of honoring me with his words and doubly with a bit of insight into who he was. 

His eyes connected with mine through apprehensive lashes, like I might reject him, preferring silence or mystique, and to my own surprise, I was rather thrilled by the removal of both. He was still sulking in self-conscious weakness, when I smiled reassuringly at him. "You're beautiful." 

Immediately, all traces of the fearful and morose vanished from his features, and he grinned dotingly at me. It was then that I came to the conclusion that I would be unable to sacrifice his company again, and would crave it in the near future. This line of thought also sparked memory that Mardi Gras was coming, and I would be hosting a party, like everyone else in the city, but I would be alone in a crowd that was quite literally faceless. 

"I could use a consort for my masquerade ball next week." I proposed the date as if my hopes had not attached to it, but when he only nodded in agreement and continued to smile, I failed to harness my excitement. "Say yes," I implored casually, silently begging it of him. 

His teeth gleamed at me, as his lips parted in his brightest smile yet. "Yes." 

My pleasure at hearing him voice the sentiment was full of untold delight. "Say it again." 

He gave a soft laugh, infinitely happy with my encouragement. "Yes." 

* * *

I had taken him shopping for a wardrobe proper enough to attend my ball, and it had served well as an excuse to visit with him in the mean time. Upon this little meeting, we had simply called a tailor to measure him, chosen materials in the colors of a turquoise blue and white for his garments, and the finished costume had been completed with a fitting session, then delivered to him at the brothel just a few hours before my celebrations were set to begin. 

It amazed me how I had enjoyed his leisurely company as much as his physical companionship. His very presence lit me with a joy I had never known, but cautiously, I kept my distance, maintained a certain space in our budding relations. I did it for his benefit as well as mine. 

I had been waiting in the corner, watching my door as my servant opened it for arriving guests. Assessing the sheer pandemonium, I thought that it wasn't very like me to organize a sociable event like a party, but Mardi Gras was infectious. It was virtually impossible to live here and not host one for this event. My visitors were donning some of the most garish and spectacularly hideous things I had ever seen. Needless to say, it was wonderful. The noise was fantastically rhythmic and chaotic all at once. Everyone wore masks, and how anyone recognized anyone else transcended my comprehension. There must have been some trick to it. No one recognized me, however, and ironically so, since this was my home they were invading with engraved invitations to trash it. This was fine by me, because my only genuine interest was in my Hephaestion's entrance. 

Trying to explain the history behind Alexander the Great had been a challenge, and it proved fruitless in the end. While my boy was being measured, I had been regaling him with the tale of this ruler, after whom I mentioned I had been named, and his lover, but the details of Alexander and Hephaestion's inspiring and devoted love were all that seemed to make sense to him. I assume he found the story romantic, as did I, but that was not why I had told it. I had explained that I should like it if we were to masquerade as these legendary lovers, and much to my elation, he was very taken with the idea. 

So there I was, Alexander anticipating my beloved Hephaestion, an air of pretense swathed about me that somehow seemed as though it were not one. 

My instructions were simple enough, dictating that he come early, and I would find him. I did not mention that I wouldn't give him the opportunity to get lost. The moment the door was opened and he stood in its frame, stepping in to grace my busy abode, I straightened and moved forward in my chair. He carried his mask in his hand at his side a bit foolishly, but his plain visage soothed something in me while disguises, which included mine, surrounded his unhidden face. He set forth into the house, and I rose, subtly following him from room to room as he glanced all about him. His expression was as overwhelmed as it was blank with the bombardment of his senses. I trailed him out onto the gallery above the red brick courtyard, then down the staircase to the veranda. He rounded the fountain, his eyes searching from faceless person to faceless person, while unbeknownst to him I was close behind. 

As he parted from the thickness of the giddy and drunken guests, heading back towards the house, I snaked an arm around and up his chest, pulling him to me. He attempted to jerk away, and as his struggle began to exhibit his panic more dreadfully, I removed my mask, a red ponytail dropping from behind my head as I dispensed with it. Acknowledgment dawned on his face like the brightest rays of morning's first sunlight, and he nestled up to me, but not so conspicuously that anyone would really care to notice. 

He said nothing. He hadn't uttered a word to me in the presence of the tailor either, or anyone else for that matter. His voice was a gift to me, our little secret we shared. I'd not rob him or myself of that unarticulated intimate agreement and distinction, so I had prepared a room to which we could retreat for privacy this night. I leaned into the velvety skin of his earlobe and whispered to him seductively. "Follow me." 

We escaped upstairs and into my locked bedchamber. As I secured the door, he came upon the table I had set for us that had been placed near the plush sofa. There were two bottles atop it along side two crystal glasses, and across the mouth of each glass was a straining spoon that cradled a cube of sugar. A small amount of oddly tinted liquor sat at the bottom of each glass already, and he stared at the arrangement inquisitively. 

I picked up the decanter of water, lifting it over the glasses, one by one, pouring the clear liquid over the tiny block of sugar as it eroded into the drink, transforming its composition and appearance from its sickly yellow to a pastel shade of emerald green that matched his sparkling eyes superbly. After replacing the water upon the table, I raised each strainer to let the cubes slide into the mixture, and stirred. "Hephaestion," I pronounced, bent on masquerading well into the morning, if not eternity, "I would like to introduce you to the Green Fairy." I spoke with regal eloquence as I extended one of the glasses. 

He accepted it from my hand, and gawked at it, then smiling back at me with skepticism that, even in its questionable faith, harbored unconditional trust. 

"It's Absinthe," I answered, addressing all of his concerns that went without voice. "It's a potent delicacy." I took a rather large sip of mine to illustrate the point, and grinned sweetly at him. The licorice flavor burned in my throat and the effect was already being felt. "Try it." 

With a slow motion, he tipped the glass to his lips, warily sampling the alcohol. I knew he had received more than his bargain when his eyes flared wide, and he quickly withdrew the crystal from his mouth, gulping in shock. "You like this?" 

I snickered in spite of myself. "I'm accustomed to it. There was time when the mere thought of it seemed unappealing, but now I worry that I cannot imagine going without it." The unsettling notion that I spoke of more than the highly intoxicating elixir made my blood quicken that much more. Another swig drained down my throat and coursed through me like the strongest opiate. I was never one to contend well with truth. 

He was staring at me, and nursed another minuscule sampling of the drink. As it stained his cheeks with a heated flush, I was drawn closer to him, closing the distance of several feet between us. His eyes held me in such esteem and I tried to reciprocate the gaze, but I couldn't be sure if I was successful at doing so. I brought my hand to cup his face in my palm. Allowing our stare to last a bit longer, I hesitated. Then finally, I moved in to press my lips tenderly to his. The lush sensuality of his kiss was more invigorating than the Absinthe in all its poison wormwood majesty. His mouth opened, and I lapped my tongue at the inside, tasting of his nectar and confounded that I had not initiated such a romantic kiss sooner. 

After that, the virulent potion exacted its toll, and my mind clouded with haze that impaired my inhibitions, and later my memory. 

The night was well wasted, experienced in patches of two inebriated fools stumbling about the messy townhouse long after all my strange party guests had departed, while we, the aforementioned troublesome pair, were possessed by hysterical fits of amusement. Then came the flashes of nude flesh rolling around in the satin sheets, and the only solid sensation tangible in the aftermath was that of being cared for by this boy still a player in my elaborate charade. I still wore my mask, even though I had absconded with it when the night had still been young. 

Before drifting off to a dream so fleeting that I woke before I could even have it, I recall saying something to the effect of, "Please don't call me Alexander." 

* * *

The blue sky was beginning to cloud with the heavy look of a rainstorm coming. That did not deter me from my place on the gallery looking out from over its wrought-iron lattice. I stood there regarding the sunnier half of the horizon, while Clark remained inside the open balcony shutter doors, sitting upon the edge of the bed, obscured from all views but mine. The moment was a somber one, bittersweet in its serenity. We had already spent our physical passions, and then dressed, and soon it would be time for me to escort him back to his business of dwelling. 

In the last month since my Mardi Gras ball, he and I had found parting more and more difficult, and I had occupied more and more of his time, nearly monopolizing him. Though I knew I could have just purchased him in full by now, buying him from his current owner, I risked not the promise or obligation, as I had no stomach for the commitment. The eight weeks since we had met had struck me like an electrifying hurricane, hitting my very soul with illumination and enlightenment, but all that upheaval of spirit could not compare to a lifetime of disappointment, treachery, and pessimism. 

Glancing back at Clark as he sat with his eyes burrowing into the floor, I realized I did not want to think these thoughts, nor did I care to be filled with many of the others I had been having of late. My obsession had bred attachment, and that could only lead to dependency. This was why I could not simply claim him for mine. This was why he had to go when I said, and why our visits were limited to the span of one day, and not a minute more. 

I knew he did not want to return to the brothel and his other clientele, nor did I want him to, but he respected my wishes and did as I asked of him. He went back whenever I felt it appropriate to part from him, he always followed my instructions when we went out in public, and he never spoke in private unless I started the conversation, leaving the opening of dialogue to my discretion. He was very well behaved, and that was the most irrelevant and unfair thing I could have said about him, because the compliment did neither him nor my weakness for him any justice. 

"My father always equated sentimentality with weakness," I said to myself, ignorant that Clark had heard me. 

When my eyes fell upon him again, he was staring at me in confusion, at a total loss for what I meant or where that random remark had been born. In all honesty, I had not meant to speak it, but some accidents happen for a reason. Some accidents, I believed, were fated. I would even go so far as to say that there were no accidents. It had been no accident that the suffering buried inside me had mounted and the pressure was building for some avenue of release from it. Therefore, it had been no accident that I had absentmindedly slipped and Clark had caught it. It might have been a grave mistake, but it was not coincidence. 

I was debating whether or not to travel that path or let it stay unexplored. We had never discussed our families or backgrounds. I assumed it was because they were both heartbreaking stories. I knew mine had that mark about it, and it was more than evident his bore the same brand of tragedy and disillusionment. Clark would not push the point of prying my sordid past from me anymore than he would want me to solicit his sad story. 

Still, I made the decision to go forth with it a little, just to scratch the surface as a means toward a certain end. I intended to secretly explain something to him about our relationship. I desperately wanted him to know why I kept things running in this mechanical fashion even though it had the two of us idling there lamentably, dreading the end of this hour at which time we would separate for a few days again. He deserved some sort of explanation for my reasoning. 

"I don't do well with emotions, Clark. They've damned me time and time again. My father was the first and last such instance." My eyes were locked with his, meaning to get the full burden of my message across to him, and though I knew he was hanging on the words themselves, I convinced myself he would see between them eventually, as I inanely willed him to understand. "He's difficult to describe." 

Clark was quiet, then chimed in, offering assistance to my lack of expression. "Was he nice?" 

I had to suppress a laughing fit that would have culminated in sobs. "He was crazy." The term did not speak volumes enough to summarize his dementia and derangement. "He performed grotesque experiments, horrors the likes of which were unbelievably inhumane, all in the interest of what he had called 'scientific research'. It sickened me then, and it still does when brought to mind." Desolation overcame me. 

"You shouldn't torment yourself by thinking about such things." 

My dear lover showed the utmost concern for my mental well-being, and I merely smiled sadly at him. He knew not the naive simplicity of his own words. He could not fathom the truth, nor could he grasp the idea that it was not something I would ever escape. Next came my confession. "What's worse is that his penchant for the macabre was instilled somewhat in me." His eyes squinted in his bewilderment. "I took on some of his more tame, but rather morbid fascinations. That's what brought me here to live in New Orleans." I was attempting to shed some light on my darker side, and I lost myself somewhere in the midst of the transition. "Vampires and witches, spirits and voodoo, creatures and magic of legend, myths riddled with superstition and other common nonsense," I waxed full of the philosophic, suddenly possessed of my ghoulish passions and tendencies, "and they are never what they seem." 

Clark seemed subtly alarmed. "You speak of the occult?" 

My eyes narrowed with more than a hint of suspicion in them. Clark was barely literate. He could hardly read, yet he knew of the occult? "Well, yes, the supernatural, as it were. I don't really put stock in all of it, but I do obsess the unknown. The mystery of it draws me. Plus, I enjoy a good tale." I paused, curious as to when this conversation had veered so agreeably from its tracks, but I was very satisfied to abandon the previous gruesome topic in favor of my milder eccentricities. "Every fiction has its root in fact." 

"Lex..." He began, using the contracted form of my name that he had chosen after my declaration in the milky jade sea of Absinthe that I no longer wanted to be called by my full given name. I liked it, so I took to it kindly. However, I chided myself, because masquerading by any other name was still a charade. I withdrew from my passing thoughts and focused on Clark again, who had seemingly trailed off into some uneasy stupor. 

"Clark? Are you all right?" It was unsettling to see him grow discomfited so noticeably. When he merely sat there, hanging his head with anxious breath, I chastised myself relentlessly for frightening him so. "I didn't mean to scare you." I rushed to sit at his side, placing my arm around his back, and he leaned into my warm embrace. I loathed that I had set upon this path of discourse. In doing so, I had presumably conjured something in him best left undisturbed. He was more fragile in that moment than I had ever seen him. I received every impression that he was terrified of these monstrous fictions, and thus, I did my best to assuage his fears by getting him to actively dismiss them. "Come now. You don't really believe in such things, do you?" 

"No." His tone lacked conviction. "Of course not." 

* * *

The bar was swarmed with thirsty and obnoxious patrons, but it was less of a squeeze than any other section on the lower level of the brothel. I was waiting for Clark to come downstairs, and took a seat, knowing I was ridiculously early. The proprietor had informed me that Clark was available, however, having finished with his last customer sooner than expected, so I anticipated his imminent arrival. 

I still had trouble concealing my jealousy, envying any who laid a finger upon my lover, and though he was only a lover to me because I continued to pay for his services and increasingly more for his company, I fancied him mine. I could have rented him out every night of the week, but not only did I sense that some emotional repercussions would come of it, but it would also leave me in dire financial straits. Truth be told, my wealth was very slowly being depleted on him. I already squandered the expense of monopolizing him most weekends to deprive a majority of perspective buyers of his physical acquaintance. 

While sifting through my rambling logic, Clark came to be at my side, and as I saw him through the corner of my eye, I rose and prepared to depart with him. It was then that I looked up and caught sight of a very visible bruise upon his cheek, just to the side and beneath his left eye. I took his face in my hand, and turned it so I could better examine the wound. It was red and blue and yellow and purple, all at the same time. I was aghast that this had occurred, and I guided him by the hand to his pimp who was nearby. 

I clasped his chin in my palm, and turned his head to bear the swollen and discolored flesh. "What is this?" I demanded. 

The man searched for words, scrambling for an excuse to have neglected this detail to preserve his own neck. "Some young brute passing through town inflicted that damage, but he's long gone, monsieur. He was babbling about the boy refusing to speak." 

I glanced back at Clark, whose disgraced visage made me ache, and I regarded his expression with agonizing sympathy. 

Unfortunately, it was most likely not the first time he had been beaten or abused, but it was the first time I myself had seen him injured. I was plainly livid. "Let it be known that I will kill the next one who dares strike him or so much as raises a hand meaning him harm! Do you understand me?" 

The pimp hastily replied, "Yes, monsieur." Then, he fell silent, and I stood by in my wretched disgust with the entire situation. 

Finally, unable to tolerate the many irritations of this setting any longer, I escorted Clark out of the place and walked him to my residence on Bourbon. 

Immediately, upon our arrival at my home, I brought him into my private chambers, set him upright on the bed, and wet a cloth to apply to his cheek. As I nursed the bulging abrasion, he watched me with glassy eyes, wincing at the initial contact I made, pressing the rag to the offended area. I wished I had been there to prevent that from happening to him. I wanted to hurt the culprit of this crime ten fold what he had done to Clark. He was so dear to me that I could not bear to think of someone causing him pain, or manhandling him to any point where traces of the wrong would be imprinted upon his skin. 

I wondered if he realized how much I thought of him, cared about him, and fretted this injustice. Better if he did not know, but somehow I gleaned that he might have glimpsed it in all I said and did, my every hint and gesture. I was becoming lousy at the pretense of distance, but for the most part, I considered it of little importance, especially here and now. 

My eyes looked up to find his stare plastered to the floor. "What is it, Clark? What happened? Please, tell me." 

For a minute, he remained silent, and then without the faintest look up at me, in the most hushed timbre and forlorn tone, he started to confess his own hidden traumas. "That man didn't just hit me. I was purposely being difficult to make him do it." 

I blinked for a second, but then reacted swiftly. "What?" I could not understand the reason for doing anything so foolish. "Why?" 

"Lex..." he began, reminiscent of a time a few weeks back when he had started in a similar manner with the same air about him, but had never finished. This time, however, he seemed bent on voicing the thoughts that plagued his mind. "I think I'm cursed." 

"What on earth gives you that idea?" He was panicking again, just as he had when I had embarked upon that dark path numerous visits past. 

At this, he rambled faster than I had ever heard his speech. "There hasn't been a single happy time in my life, and each year that goes by something awful happens. I've had a strange scar on my back since birth, and when I was a child, someone told me it was the mark of the Devil. My parents died and no one even told me where they were buried, and the worst of it started with their deaths. I was told they were caught in some sort of satanic ritual, and then people came and took them and our land. Everyone reminds me that I'm worth less than nothing. I lost everything I had and never got any of it back, leaving me totally alone in the world, and I've just wanted to die my whole life ever since. I've forgotten how old I am, Lex, and I don't have anyone to tell me." 

His trembling voice cracked, and he collapsed into my arms weeping quietly. There was not an ounce of strength I failed to summon in my shock. I could scarcely control my heartache for him in that moment. I yearned to console his anguish and pacify his loneliness. All I could do was cling to him tightly as he clung to me, and the longer we remained like that, the calmer he became. I wanted only for his good and benefit. I wanted to save him, but I simply did not know how when I was in need of rescue myself. 

"There's so much I've kept from you, Lex." His words came out muffled, breaking against my shoulder, but I understood him. I understood him so much more than I'd imagined I had. "If you knew the truth, you'd think the same of me that everyone else does." 

"No!" I stated assertively. Cupping his face in my hands, I tilted his head up so I could meet his sorrowful stare. "I would never judge you, Clark. That's my father's folly. He never realized that it's not what you are, or where you're from, or even where you've been; it's who you are. The first time I told you that you were beautiful, I meant inside as well as out, and I still mean it." Hope flooded his eyes. "You've had it very rough, but you're not cursed." 

"How can you be so sure?" His expression begged an answer of me, as well as other things that were closed to anyone who sought them. 

I wanted to say I knew because he had me, but it was a partial lie. "Because there are worse curses than having nothing to lose." 

His hope faltered, skeptical but intrigued. "Like what?" 

I gazed deep into his eyes, and held back my tears. "Like having everything to lose." 

With those words fresh from my mouth, he sunk back into the comfort of my embrace, placing his head against my chest. I rocked slightly with his crumpled form, and soon his body lay across the bed with his head resting peacefully in my lap. Minutes turned to hours, and evening turned to nightfall. He nearly dozed, but roused restless instead. When it was apparent that he should indulge in something more relaxing to help settle his mind as well as all the emotions he had whipped up with such fury, I drew a bath. 

The water was warm and inviting, and I sunk into it first, then guided him into the tub with me. I leaned back flat against the incline of the porcelain, and he leaned his back against my front as I slung one of my arms over his shoulder and down to his abdomen. We laid silently, our naked bodies immersed to our chests, and in the tranquility, our eyes shut against the dim candlelight. When next I observed him, a contented smile was upon his lips, as with any other time we had spent together, only now somehow it seemed to shine more, as if the whole release had polished him anew. 

More time passed, and I was on the threshold of consciousness when I felt him shift his weight against me. My awareness of his proximity blocked out the fact that the water was getting cold, and blocked out the lowness of the candles, and blocked out everything except his presence. Passion already ignited in the movement of his body as it turned on its side against my chest, stimulation was increasing, and I was struck with the selfish urge to take pleasure in and from him. 

My lips brushed his temple, then pressed tenderly to the corner of his closed eyelid. By time I reached his unblemished cheek, he was entwining his arms behind me, hugging my lean physique to him firmly. My lips came down on his and kissed him sweetly and gently, though my control belied my aroused condition. When the contact broke, he gazed into my eyes with his soul bared unto me therein. I gazed back affectionately, and something too beautiful and heavenly to describe flickered in his doting stare. I smiled with an atypically open heart, and his grin widened, appearing quite enamored of my expression. 

"I love you." It was the first time he had ever spoken without me doing so first. 

My immense and indiscreet grin melted into a frown of some sad and regrettable consequence. Why did he have to say that? I knew that I could not return the declaration. I would that he never gathered the will to say it again, yet now that he had proclaimed his affections, I ached duly because he had meant it and I had heard it. I should not have been loved by him, as he should not have wanted to be loved by me, and I lamented these cumbersome thoughts I kept secret. I instantly lost my confidence to look him in the eye, and my head dropped, proceeding to roll away from his smile as it diminished. 

I had flinched in the face of true love. The impulse to flee the water overcame me, and I stood coolly, and stepped out of the tub, roaming to the other side of the room, strategically separating myself from him. 

He sunk ever so slightly in his place, his features marred by regret. "I'm sorry..." 

"Please don't apologize for saying it." I had interrupted him, lest he shatter my heart entirely, as it was currently breaking. "You don't even know me." 

Something moved in his countenance that had never presented itself before, and it was the more angry side of frustration. It hadn't occurred to me at the time, but he must have been skewered by my paradoxical nature. I had known him for almost three months, and we had shared so much that still remained unsaid, yet I countered and deflected his feelings, denying him all that he had earned, but I would not concede out of pride or fear or gloom or some other wretched characteristic I'd not admit to having. Whatever the case, he was quite upset. "What is it really? Have I turned out to be worth nothing after all?" 

I had no mind for this after his spontaneous declaration. "You can't possibly understand." 

"So you say. So you've always said, in one way or another. I want to be with you. If that's not how you feel, then tell me as much, but don't string me along. Don't permit me to delude myself." He waited, and I gave him no response. "Do you want to be with me? Do you care for me anything beyond our companionship?" He listened for any clue, any sign of a tip of the scale, but I froze in my uncertainty, and he was dismayed by it. 

He fled quicker than I could gather my wits about me, and before I even realized he intended to desert me in his despair, I heard the door slam. 

"Clark!" I called out, but it was too late. I had hesitated an instant too long, and the decision had been made for me. "Clark." 

* * *

Within the space of a week, I was an utter wreck. I could think of nothing but Clark, and I could feel nothing but his absence. 

Unavoidably, I set out to confront him, determined to win back his favor, or at the very least, talk through a more acceptable end, painted with the illusion of closure. Nothing could squelch my resolve. He was the only thing I had ever latched onto in my horrendous existence, and I had done it of my own volition, despite whatever I had told myself to perpetuate boundaries and indifference. I was not about to so easily part with the one good thing that had ever come into my life. I would never forgive myself for leaving things as they were. 

I had it all planned. If he refused to see me, I'd pay his man a ludicrously extravagant sum, and he would be required to address the issue, or at least, let me speak my piece. If he put up no resistance, I'd still speak my mind, and all that haunted me in the last several days since he broke from me. I'd explain that I missed him and how badly my heart felt the loss. I would make it known that he was a part of my soul, and no matter what happened, that would always be the way of it. However, I remained unsure as to whether or not I did this for me or for him. 

As I turned onto Iberville, this dreary afternoon, my thoughts were interrupted as a jarring commotion ensued in the street ahead and cost me a bit of my concentration. Very quickly, though, all of my attention diverted to the scene, as I recognized the young man being dragged by both arms out of the whorehouse towards a black carriage that waited. I rushed towards the men who flanked Clark. Worry over his reaction to my presence vanished when his eyes widened, appealing desperately to me, and making an unprecedented gesture that hastened my steps further still; he hollered my name, loud enough for all to hear. 

"Lex!" His call to me grabbed the attention of his pimp, who was in tow of the group restraining him as he fought wildly. 

I arrived promptly at Clark's side, and he repeated my name like it was a sacred chant that would protect him. 

"Lex. Lex. Lex." Each one was punctuated with a cry for help, and divided by erratic breaths that told of his frantic state. 

"What's going on here?" I demanded of the proprietor. 

"He's been sold to a private slave owner." His answer was so matter-of-fact that it paralyzed me. 

As I stood inert, the men boarded the stagecoach with him, and his panic overwhelmed him, inciting him to raise his voice to a louder pitch. "Lex!" 

My insides went numb and I felt them liquefy at the sight before me. Clark twisted his body inside the little black box to face the clear window at the back of it where he could see me only a few feet away, stationary and defeated. He banged his hand against the glass and the wooden interior, and shouted my name, over and over and over again. "Lex!" He was terrified, and as much as it agonized me to watch, I could not look away from him. "Lex!" 

The horse-drawn vehicle started to carry him away from me, and the further he got, the more excruciating my helplessness. 

He raged against the violation of his liberty, and rivers flowed freely from his eyes. The more the gap between us spread, the more he struggled. He pounded on the glass until ultimately it cracked severely. "Lex! Lex!" This boy, who spoke like a mouse, was screaming for me with all of his heart, like he were being hollowed out inside, and it killed me to witness. "LEX!" 

My heart was still cluttered with what was transpiring, but my thoughts were beginning to clear. The time had come that it was necessary to decide, once and for all. I could let this be it, finally let him go, and rue the bad end of something that had begun against the odds, or I could not let it happen, finally grabbing hold of him never to let go, and seize the chance to shape an uncertain future that would come of making our own destiny. 

I stared at the carriage anxiously as it gained more distance from me, then turned the corner of Canal Street and disappeared from my sight. 

My attention shifted to the pimp left with me. "What road are they taking?" 

* * *

He was sulking, a heap of his former self, no strength left in him as he was bordered by an employee of his new owner on either side. 

Clark had the image of Lex standing in front of the brothel a crestfallen man emblazoned upon his brain. When he closed his eyes, it was still there, despite the darkness, and despite the tears. The vision seared his heart, branding his very soul with the scar of another tragic memory. He sniffled, the well of his sadness dry by this point, having exhausted itself. So much had been left unsaid and unfinished. He blamed himself for having allowed it to come to the end by which they had parted. Things might have been different had he been patient or simple or carefree, or any of the other more amiable characteristics he lacked due to harsh human flaw. He was so taken to his grief that he barely noticed when the carriage stopped. 

A horrific sound peeled through the air, and Clark's head snapped up along with those of the two men who bracketed him. As the horses neighed in unnnerving distress, the man on Clark's right parted from the coach to investigate the problem. After a very short interval of silence, the horses reared up and the interior shook with their frenzied movements. Then, when the one man did not return, the second produced a musket, preparing for anything. 

In the blink of an eye, the man was jerked from the sanctity of the compartment, leaving Clark on his own with his heart beating in his throat. It had happened so rapidly that Clark had not even seen anything but the man's arms and legs as his whole body was yanked from its seat, and then it was eerily silent again. It was impossible for him to gauge what was occurring, as the suddenness of it had him quite alarmingly disoriented. 

Clark waited, anticipating some dreadful demise or danger was going to claim him as it had seemingly done to the others, but only silence reigned. 

Then, from the exterior at some implied distance, came a familiar voice, like that of an angel. "Clark?" 

That was Lex! Clark scrambled his way about exiting the carriage. As soon as his head peeked outside, he saw his beloved waiting for him several feet behind the stagecoach. Lex anticipated their reunion with a large smile on the verge of sheer joy, but something more somber kept him from reacting with the same kind of enthusiasm his eyes conveyed. Something seemed very much amiss, feeling like a daring rescue gone inexplicably sour. 

As Clark got closer, his higher reasoning functions resumed, and left him with the mystery of what had just happened. He swirled around to see the bodies of the men who had been escorting him to the plantation where he was to be a slave, and their limp figures were strewn about the road with small amounts of blood spattered randomly over the scene. One's neck was twisted at an impossible angle, obviously broken. Clark knew it was only Lex here, and he saw no weapons or supporting parties. Clark faced Lex, halting a few feet before him, possessed of ignorant bliss and maturing puzzlement. 

"How did you do that?" Clark was stunned, presented with an incredible riddle. "And how did you get here ahead of us?" 

Lex dropped his eyes to the dirt, and then glanced at Clark in a fretful and sorrowful manner. His ill at ease demeanor gave him away. 

"You aren't what you seem..." he muttered, paraphrasing Lex's words of prophetic wisdom from a conversation nearly lost to significance. Suddenly, Clark realized that he himself was not the one here with the secret. "You're not human...," he muttered astounded, "or at least, you're not anymore." Lex's head hung heavily, then his eyes reunited with Clark's in dread. Fruition descended upon Clark. "You're one of your father's creations." The revelation served to draw back a curtain that had long veiled the truth from him and blinded him to the light, but now he basked in it, in awe of its effect. 

"Now do you understand?" The suffering of this cumbersome cross Lex bore infused that question, encompassing so much more than his insecurity. 

"Yes." Clark stared at Lex considerately. "It's not what you are, but who," he pronounced reassuringly; not just regurgitating the words, but applying them, putting his enlightenment into cheerful practice. He was trying to get the message across to Lex, and as his lips curled up, the point was taken. 

Lex exhaled on a sigh of surprise, his eyes glazing over with tangible emotion. "Do you mean that?" He knew the answer without having to ask. 

"Didn't I say it already?" Clark smiled, pausing to regard Lex in all his devotion and vulnerability. "I'm in love with you." 


End file.
